


Drabble Set 2: Little Red Boxes

by orphan_account



Series: Christmas Drabble Set [2]
Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Drabbles 4-7 - Hastings has left Poirot, but can't resist calling him in nearby telephone boxes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drabble Set 2: Little Red Boxes

**Drabble Set 2: Little Red Boxes**

**AU Drabbles 4-7 - Hastings has left Poirot, but can't resist calling him in nearby telephone boxes.**

**Drabble 4**

Christmas was supposed to be a time of joy, a time of happiness and peace to all. There was good cheer in the air, with children almost gliding through the snow, with couples dancing and kissing under mistletoe.

The festive cheer had all but vanished within me.

Each couple that waltzed past was another reminder of what I couldn't have, every love-struck Christmas poster image a stab in the heart. Every year up until now I had survived it, ignored it, pressed it down, but this year I found I could not. Perhaps it was the picturesque snowfall that had befallen London, so reminiscent of those romanticized Christmas cards. Or perhaps I was not as strong as I was before, and could not bear the strain of such an emotional burden.

You see, I had fallen in love with my best friend Poirot. And I couldn't stay with him any longer lest my heart burst from repressed emotion, and then be trodden on as he would (probably) reject my love outright. And that is why I was stood in a red telephone box, far away from him and the picturesque streets of London, preparing to tell him how I felt.

I fumbled in my pocket for some change. I didn't have much, but I hoped it would give me long enough to tell him what was going on. I turned the dial to the right numbers. The line was silent for a few seconds, until the phone on the other end was lifted from its receiver.

" _Allô?_ "

"It's me." There was a pause, then Poirot's confused voice came through the speaker.

"Hastings?"

"Poirot, I haven't much time. I must tell you something."

"What is it? What has happened?" He sounded hurt. I almost lost my nerve, but I had to tell him. I couldn't vanish into the night without him knowing why I left. Perhaps then he could forget about me.

"I can't come back to the flat." There was silence at the other end. Poirot seemed to have been stunned into silence.

"Hastings… what has happened?"

"I… I've been hiding something from you. Perhaps I would've hidden if for longer had this not happened. But everything is too much. I can't stay with you anymore."

"Arthur, please-" He was pleading now. He barely ever used my first name, unless it was serious. I couldn't cope. My will was breaking. I had to say it now or I would never say it at all.

"I love you. I'm sorry."

 _Click._ The phone went dead. The meter was out of money, and I was out of change. I left the box, pushing my hands into my pockets as my feet crunched against the icy grass verge. I pretended not to hear the phone box ringing as I walked away. I could not go back. Not even for one more minute of his voice. It would be harder to leave the second time.

It was time to move on.

**Drabble 5**

The place was the red box I had made my confession in. The date was the 25th of December, exactly a year after I left him. And I still hadn't moved on.

I rested my head on the metal box, thinking quietly about him. I had tried my best to move on and forget, but along came winter and it all came flooding back. The evenings. The smiles. The adventures. The call.

I didn't know how I found myself here again. This box was in the middle of nowhere. And yet by some sixth sense I had let my feet guide me here. And now I stood in the little red box with a pocketful of change and a desire to hear him again. I knew I shouldn't. But I had to. He could hate me for all I knew, but I still loved him, and my heart yearned for his voice once more.

My fingers had already started putting coins in the meter before I had a chance to think. My fingers danced as I rang out the ever-prevailing number in my mind. I waited for someone to pick up, heart beating faster than before.

"Hello, Mr Poirot's office?"

Miss Lemon. I missed her too, of course, but she was not who I wanted- no, _needed -_ at the minute. I put the receiver down, my

The phone rang out, the loud noise startling me from my thoughts. I stared at it, wondering whether I should answer it or not. Was it him, or was it Miss Lemon, trying to contact me on his behalf? I rested my hand on the receiver. There was only one way to find out.

I lifted the receiver to my ear.

" _Allô?_ "

It was him. I smiled at his voice. It had been so long, and yet it was still the sweetest thing I have ever heard. He was speaking to me through the earpiece, but I was not paying attention, simply letting his settle around me like a well-loved blanket. It had been so long, and yet it seemed like only yesterday we had spoken.

I wished I could reply to his melodious voice, say it was me, beg his forgiveness, but fear held my tongue. I did not know how he would react. Last time we had spoken, I had told him I loved him. I did not know if he hated me for that. I didn't want to know if he hated me for that. I preferred to live in a state of ignorance than know that the man I loved hated my very soul. It would make moving on far less painful.

I hung the phone back on the receiver. A minute, then it rang again. I ignored it.

**Drabble 6**

It was Christmas again, and I was back in London.

I had promised myself I wouldn't come back here. I had to try and force myself to move on. There was too much here that reminded me of _him_. Two years had passed me by. Poirot had probably met someone else by now, someone else to take on adventures, someone else he would love…

My heart clenched at the thought. I chastised myself for the reaction. I was trying to move on - I didn't need to react with jealousy every time someone else was mentioned in connotation with Poirot. And yet… and yet it was if some God above was insistent that I think of him, and remember.

I had been so busy thinking of him that my feet had led me to the telephone box right outside his flat. I slowed myself, overcome by a sudden skittishness. I did not want to be seen coming back here. I was supposed to be strong, to have moved on. But my heart desperately wanted to at least hear him once more. I stared at the bright red phone box, its light inviting me in, inviting me back to temptation.

I dawdled in front of the red box for some time, considering and thinking, until I could wait no longer, and darted into the box. With a practiced hand, I dialled the number and waited. The line was silent for a few minutes, and remained silent until I came to the conclusion that there was no-one at the flat. I replaced the phone on the receiver, feeling empty.

I exited the box, and looked up towards the flat that I had called home for several years. The curtains were tied back, but the lights were off, and the window was dark. I wondered how much it had changed since I had left. Had someone else moved in? Had some of my mementos been packed away, forgotten about? I slipped my hand into my pocket and fingered the flat key that had resided there for the past two years. I wanted to know desperately if he had forgotten when I so clearly could not.

My fingers curled around the key. I crossed the road, and made my way home.

As I entered the flat, I noticed it had barely changed since I had last been here. Two years had not weathered it in the slightest – the settee, the polished desk, everything was as he had left it two Christmas' ago. The same decorations had been tacked to the wall, the card rack had started to fill up and the smell of mixed spice lingered in the air. The mantelpiece was decorated with knickknacks again, as it always was at Christmas, with buttons and ribbons that meant so much to us both.

But as I looked at the mantel longer, I realised there was something odd about it. After spending so many Christmas' with Poirot, I knew that year upon year, the arrangement of the mantel never changed. It was always the silver lapel pin on the left, then the small roll of letters, the red ribbon, the standard issue German buttons and our engagement rings on the right, which were periodically moved from the desk to the mantel at Christmastime.

But now, there were not five items on the mantel, but six. The ribbon had been moved from its customary place in the middle so it resided nearer the tin buttons. A swatch of fabric sat its place, and as I approached it, I realised exactly what it was.

Before I had left, I had somehow managed to tear the breast pocket from my coat. At the time, Poirot had huffed his disapproval, before promising to hand it to a tailor to have it fixed the next day. Of course, the next day I had gone, and taken the coat with the missing pocket with me. After all these years, he had kept it as a reminder.

With trembling hands, I lifted the fabric, and laid it where it should've been sown on my coat. It was a little darker than the surrounding fabric, but it still looked as if it had come from the same coat. I smiled, despite myself. He'd kept the pocket in good condition. He still cared, even after what I had said.

A rattle of the lift outside the flat brought me back to earth. I realised I couldn't be found here, and with a quick look around, one last time, I dashed to the door and vanished down the stairwell.

**Drabble 7**

Christmas of year three. I was back in London, in the red box outside _his_ flat. I couldn't do this anymore.

Ever since my visit to Poirot's flat, I could not get him out of my head. He still remembered me after all these years. It was obvious he did not hate me. Why else would he show mementos of me on the mantel? If he had hated me, he would've rid the flat of all trace of me.

There was a chance that he would forgive me, my wrongs, my foolhardy flight, and that was all my mind would fixate on. Scenarios flitted through my mind at every opportunity, showing scenes of domestic bliss, what I could have versus what I did have. No matter how I feared I had misinterpreted everything, my willpower was slowly crumbling. No matter what the risk, I was desperate to have him back, as a friend if nothing else.

I looked through the glass of the phone box, up at his flat. The lights were on, and I could see his shadow flitting about in the room above. Miss Lemon had left for the day – I had spied her leaving just as I had arrived. This was my chance to fix things.

I slid some change from my pocket into the meter, rang the number, and waited.

" _Allô_?"

"Merry Christmas, Poirot." There was silence at the other end, until Poirot replied, his voice sounding both relieved and happy.

 _"_ _Joyeux Noël,_ _mon trésor_."


End file.
